


Shadow-walking

by Oparu



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Community: rarewomen, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ro Laren and Deanna Troi undertake a secret mission on a matriarchal world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow-walking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beatrice_Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Otter/gifts).



Being alone with a counselor in a shuttlecraft is not her idea of fun. Ro understands why she and Deanna Troi are a logical choices for this mission. Ro Laren has had advanced tactical training, she's expected to adapt to every situation. She's not entirely sure how to adapt to sitting next to someone who's reading her mind, but she can make do.

Deanna's an expert on matriarchal societies, diplomacy and keeping away from trouble who has always been kind to her, polite, supportive; they've never been alone for a long period of time and Deanna's a counselor, not a commando. Theirs is a difficult situation: a conflict that has lasted a generation on a poor, desperate world. They have to get in, get a feel for the ground and head back out. Deanna's diplomatic experience might be valuable with a group of security officers to back them up. Laren's seen her on dangerous missions before, and yes, she did somehow save the _Enterprise_ when she was in command, but can she hold a phaser?

Next to her at the controls, Deanna holds a cup of tea, staring out at the stars in front of them. She pulls her knees up, then looks over. "Tense?"

"I often am before a mission." Is she reading her mind?

"It's in your shoulders. You sit straight up."

"Lieutenant Alhaudin thought I had the only acceptable posture in her class at the Academy," Laren says.

"She was stricter than my mother, which is saying something if you know my mother." For a moment, Laren recognises that discomfort in Deanna's voice. Her parents never had the chance to worry about how Laren presented herself, or if she had the proper deportment.

"We haven't met yet."

"There's still time," Deanna says, grinning over her tea. "You never know, you might get along."

"I doubt it."

"She likes people who have no trouble being direct."

"Oh?" Laren ponders that while she gets herself a cup of tea. Maybe if she has something to do with her hands, she'll stop fidgeting and feel more at ease with her skin. Tea is calming anyway, at least, that's what she's told. 

Deanna speaks easily, telling stories of her mother's outlandish yet disciplined style of parenting. Laren listens, letting her picture of life on a non-occupied world fill in. She knew Federation worlds had different standards of living. All of them blended together in her head into the idea of life so wonderful people didn't worry about what they were going to eat or how they would survive to the next day. 

The soft, unchallenged wealth of Betazed, the privilege and responsibility Deanna grew up in, and the idea that her father died, not because a Cardassian wanted him to, but because the universe is harsh and cold. It's easier to live with the idea of of the universe taking lives than Cardassians doing it. 

"Most of us have lost our parents: Worf's biological parents, both of Beverly's parents, Will's mother, Geordi's mother, even the Captain. Many of their deaths were violent and sudden." 

"It's a hard universe, Counselor." 

"And we all choose to put our lives in danger, perhaps because our parents would be proud."

The last doesn't sound like the pleasant, comforting words of a counselor and Laren appreciates that. It sounds real. They talk about Mok'Bara and other martial arts, then about Commander Riker's latest trombone solo and how badly it's been going for him. Deanna doesn't act like she's talking about him to prove that their relationship is something other than friends, or that she holds any kind of grudge for that time Laren took him to bed, not knowing how much he frustrated her. Laren's sure she couldn't forgive that easily but Deanna's part Betazoid, anything is possible.

* * *

In their cheap hotel on the planet, Laren listens to the night workers cleaning the streets and collecting refuse. It's louder than Earth, where everything neatly vanishes. This night is full of cleaners and intoxicated couples walking home. She can make out some kind of creatures, insects she thinks, humming in the background like a poorly tuned warp nacelle. Across the room, Deanna's fast asleep, still and quiet. She was awake only minutes ago and Laren wonders if there must be some kind of trick to sleeping when the city and all the minds in it around you are full of noisy chaos. Maybe she's just gotten used to it. 

She asks over breakfast if every planet has a different feel to it. Deanna compares this one to that over-stretched feeling of sunburn, when your skin's too tight. Something's off, there's too much tension. The traders in the street walk like something's too close on their heels. Laren knows that feeling and she keeps on hand inside her jacket, holding her phaser. She's playing the part of bodyguard to Deanna's trader. She could be extravagant and head down the street, phaser rifle in hand, but the captain asked for subtle. 

Laren keeps her hand close in her jacket, watching Deanna search the market, looking at textiles and jewellery as if she's looking for the perfect piece that'll make her rich when she trades it with the other continent. One of the rival traders, a woman with deep red hair, walks by with a trio of bodyguards. She follows Deanna for a few metres, touching what she touches. Laren has her eyes on her, memorising the symbol on her jacket. The two headed-bird is one of their mythical creatures, a goddess of vengeance and anger. 

She's ready, as tense as a duranium conduit. Deanna keeps walking, slow and sure. That's what gives her the edge she needs. Deanna is calm, stoic: as unbothered as a rhisja cat, settled in the sun. When the guards head for her, presumably for the imagined insult of Deanna moving in on their territory, Laren has three open shots.

She downs the first two quickly, conserving her phaser. The third puts up more of a fight, taking her own with fists and elbows. Training takes over, guiding her body but her opponent is trained as well. Their hands find an intricate dance between them, pausing to inflict pain when they miss a step. Laren's starting to lose, her shoulder's been pulled too far back, one of her wrists is strained and the building ringing in her ears is definitely headed towards a concussion. Where's the counselor? Did she get away? Is she smart enough to leave? Laren pours all the spare thought she has into the idea that she's about to lose and Deanna will be undefended. She has to get out of there before--

One phaser blast, short and contained, and it's over. Deanna Troi stands above her, barely even dusty from the street. The counselor lowers a hand, pulling Laren up.

"Good work."

Laren stands still, letting Deanna brush her off. "That was fast."

"She was distracted."

Taking Deanna's shoulder with her good hand, Laren repeats herself. "You were fast, counselor. I know fast."

"Then thank you," Deanna says, smiling. "We make a good team." 

Back in the hotel, planning the next day's fact-finding, Laren doesn't even hide her admiration. Ambassador Troi's right. Directness is easier.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this. I loved the idea of Laren and Deanna on some secret mission, developing some kind of mutual respect.


End file.
